The Music Lesson

Jan Vermeer, 1664

I met up with my former music instructor and opera star A. in Berlin, where he was doing a recital. Set against the chill in a jaunty deerstalker, sunglasses(!), charcoal greatcoat and signature red cravat, he was every inch the diva. He was living his dream, and as he liked to tell me, he'd metamorphosed into his very own Hoffman.

We tucked into a small pub, got our drinks, and caught up fast. I told him of my foray into the Dutch indie scene some months back, and even sang him a few lines of the new song I've been working on.

He drummed his fingers disapprovingly on the table. "Your passagio's a little wobbly. It affects your projection. You might want to sing in a lower key."

I took out a pen and scribbled something on a napkin, sighed, and began listlessly picking at our shared torte.

"I guess I'm a little rusty."

As if on cue, he whipped out a CD from his coat and handed it to me. "Vocalises. Knock yourself out with it for a week, and it'll be like the old times."

I wryly raised my mug in salute. "I missed you, A."

"No less for the most difficult woman I've ever met. Die frau ohne schatten."

I looked outside. Darkness was setting in, but the snowing had abated a bit. "When the streetlights come on, I'll stand under every one of them to prove you wrong. Why don't we take a little walk?"

"Looks like a fine night for it."

I smiled. "Just like old times."